


The Book of the City of Ladies

by Anonymous



Category: Little Women Series - Louisa May Alcott
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Epistolary, F/F, Period-Typical Anti-Racism, attempts at matchmaking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-25 23:03:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21364114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: A selection of Jo's letters to Beth, written during her time in New York.
Relationships: Jo March/Original Female Character
Comments: 11
Kudos: 47
Collections: Anonymous, Femslash Exchange 2019





	The Book of the City of Ladies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Missy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missy/gifts).

Dear Beth—  
Mrs. Kirke had friends visiting this afternoon, a Mrs. Abbott and her niece, and as the children were with their aunt I was able to sit with them. I was glad to, for they proved to be most interesting company. Mrs. Abbott is a fine, intelligent Negro woman, who devotes herself to lecturing and raising funds for select charities; she and Mrs. Kirke are great friends from Mrs. Kirke’s days as a church organizer, before her marriage. Their conversation was very absorbing to listen to, as you can imagine. Mrs. Abbott has met Mr. Douglass, and Mr. Weld, and almost anyone else one can think of, and has travelled over almost the whole Northern part of the country besides.

Listening, I was ashamed to realize how little I knew, and to think that I had called myself a slave for so little reason, when I heard these two noble women talk about Negro orphanages burned to the ground in this very city, not three years ago. I was very glad that I did not embarrass myself when I spoke, and that I remembered the fight over Boston’s schools, which Father played a small role in, and the plight of poor Miss Crandall in Connecticut.

I liked Mrs. Abbott very much, and wish I liked her niece half so well, for she will be in the city all winter, and I suppose will be visiting. I judged her to be a severe-looking girl, and rather dull when she speaks, despite her well-made dress and gold spectacles. Those spectacles! I had to swallow a laugh every time I looked at them, they looked so like the prop we used when Meg played Portia.

Mrs. Kirke and I were both very energized by the visit; her idea is to “get up” some of her church groups to sew for some of the children, and my humbler one is to knit like a madwoman, whenever I have the spare time—which isn’t often, for Kitty Kirke won’t study French, and Minnie _will_ hide scraps of food in her skirt for the kitchen cat, and then forget about them. And yet the two together make so much less mischief than Aunt March could on her lonesome, that all I can do is laugh, and try to get the stains out of the dress before it has to be worn again. Goodness, how the time runs!

_Postscript_ – I meant to tear the last page up, but I won’t, for it would be dishonest. 

Miss Abbott visited again today; I was camped out on the sofa, seizing a moment for my scribbling—my only hardship, thus far, is that I have to stay up half the night if I want to write at all. 

She asked, with great courtesy, how my writing was— I had mentioned it passing. Seized by one of my bad angels, I launched into a recitation of the last two or three of my masterpieces, all jumbled together. She listened, impassive but with the appearance of interest—she is a teacher—to my cheerful recitation of duels, elopements, poisoning, arson, et cetera. (Don’t fret, Betty; it’s no worse than the last manuscript, and Father approved of that—in any case it’s all written for your benefit, and thus for a good cause.)

I had expected her to express her disgust, but she only waited until it became necessary to pause and take a breath—I had just come to the regicide—and then asked, “But what is the _lesson_?”

Her voice was so schoolmarmish that I almost laughed. 

“Oh, there is none,” I said, sadly. “There would have been, but I had to take it out. They don’t sell, you see.”

“Of course there is a moral,” she said gently. “If there is none, then that is a moral in itself.”

For a moment I bristled hard at such a severe tone from a stranger—and then the temper passed, just as Marmee said it would, and Miss Esther Abbott was only a girl my own age, watching me with big eyes behind her glasses, that that seemed too large for her thin face. 

I meekly told her that she was right, and begged her pardon—and she begged mine! How much worse to be unkind to her, who expected it, rather than to one of Aunt March’s friends or Amy’s swains, who would perhaps have benefited from it? She must feel herself all alone in the great city, even more than I do. I’ve determined to put myself forward as a helpmeet to her, to the best of my poor ability.

We passed a nice half hour in visiting before Mrs. Kirke and the little girls returned. There, that’s my latest scrape, and I hope I’ll feel better for confessing it to someone. 

Yours, JO.

_Postscript the second_ – the enclosed music was endorsed by Mrs. Kirke on the advice of one of her friends, who is an opera singer, of all things. I know it is the kind of thing Teddy likes more than anything, so if you aren’t selfish please make a point of playing it for him—I know how he would appreciate it, from your hands especially.__

_ _

_ _Beth—  
I wish you hadn’t given Teddy the impression that your performance was my gift to him instead of yours—but never mind, it isn’t your fault; if he had any sense he’d look at what was in front of him rather than building castles in the air. What a foolish child he is at times! Take good and faithful care of my boy for me, Bethie._ _

_ _I enjoyed your last letter very much otherwise— laughed until I had to sit down, and have been quoting it all day. Don’t mind very much, for everyone likes it, and thinks very highly of you, because of all I’ve told them. For heaven’s sake _don’t_ send the story to Amy, for if she hears that her nephew and niece have grown just big enough to mess about with her artist’s store then I shudder to think how our Michaelangela will react._ _

_ _Thank you again for your letter, and even more gratitude for the package that came with it; you must have knit your poor little hands to pieces, to put together such a stash so soon after I mentioned the need! It wasn’t necessary to unravel Joanna’s shawl and bedspread, perhaps, but it’s such a fine, noble gesture that I love you for it. _ _

_ _I haven’t written to you very much about Esther Abbott—only that I’ve been helping her to collect the Christmas donations for her students. Mrs. Kirke thinks it a good idea, and has Minnie and Kitty knitting away at small sets of mittens and socks for their peers. I had intended to volunteer as a kind of penance, and shuffle about the city with my back bent over with charitable bundles; but in fact we spend most of our time taking tea with the ladies of various sewing circles, and Esther is too solicitous and well-mannered to cause any kind of discomfort, however willingly offered. She asked me to call her Essie, as her aunt does. _ _

_ _I’ve learned a little more about her—enough to make her seem less of a marble paragon, at least, which she never was in the first place. Her whole family is freeborn, and her father is a builder in Philadelphia; she was raised by her aunt, who she praises very highly, since her mother died when she was born. She was educated at a small women’s academy, where she was the only Negro student. _ _

_ _The school she works at was only recently rebuilt, and serves Negro children who have recently relocated from the South; they are very cold, and whatever knit goods we can scare up are greatly appreciated. It would do you good to see her talk about her students, Beth, for she has such pride in them, and makes such great plans. It is the one subject that makes her forget her poise. _ _

_ _The only trouble, in my view, is that she is still just as serious on this subject as she is on any other; the idea that children like to run and play, instead of being continually stuffed full of arithmetic formulas, and patriotic recitations, makes her shake her head sadly. I mean to be a good influence in the other direction, for you know what a gay and foolhardy creature I can be, and luckily she takes no offense to my nonsense. _ _

_ _Your sister,  
JO._ _

_ _

_ _Betty—  
I’m in such a funny, blue sort of mood tonight— no reason for it; had a nice, productive day with the girls, and afterwards went to sit with another of Mrs. Kirke’s acquaintances, who is the kind of good, industrious, sweet-natured old woman who it is a pleasure to be around. And yet here I am, a perfect bear if anyone would come near me, and yet wishing someone would, for I’m all alone in my den, and can’t concentrate on “Roxane’s” troubles when my own are here to occupy me. _ _

_ _I wish Essie had come over—she comes to visit often enough now that it’s a wrench when she doesn’t. Poor girl; she’s very lonely, I think, and misses her aunt, and works for her students to the point of exhaustion. When she walks here in the evenings it’s cold enough that her hands, in those fine leather gloves, are almost frozen; I have to blow on them and rub at them for minutes at a time to warm them._ _

_ _I showed her some writing pieces of mine—I feel so much prouder of the older ones, somehow, raw as they are — and now she has a great interest in it, and likes to suggest plots, and to come up with romantic-sounding names for the heroines and heroes, and dastardly ones for the villains. She is still convinced that there is a place for lessons to be taught in these stories, no matter how silly they are otherwise. _ _

_ _I had a flash of inspiration yesterday, for she would be a perfect model for a heroine, both in looks and in character. I started it, meaning to make it a surprise for her, but got only a page into the story of “Esmerelda” before coming aground, for I didn’t know what to do with her. I have my castles in the air, but they’re so airy themselves that it’s hard to think how to fulfill them. Essie’s dream at least is solid in foundation; she wants to take a teaching job at one of the new schools for Negro children in the south, and thinks she’ll get one by next spring. She says that it’s safer there than here in New York; at least there she’ll have the protection of the army. _ _

_ _I’ve looked the letter over critically, and don’t think it’s a very good one, but I’ll send it, in hopes that the next one will be more cheerful. Kiss the babies a second time for me the next time you see them, and have Meg sit down, for Marmee says she’s run off her feet._ _

_ _JO._ _

_ _

_ _Dear Betsy—  
I’ve wondered and stumbled over how to phrase this, but Beth, I hope you know that you can confide in me about anything you like, even something you’d hesitate to tell Marmee. You’ve grown up so fast, and I suppose it’s easiest for all of us to go on thinking of you as the little bird singing away in the house— but don’t confine yourself to the old bird-cage for our sakes. _ _

_ _I have my own story of “lovering”, but I won’t share it, for it’s odd, and perhaps no more than my own fancy; but I’m happy as a lark, and I think you and Marmee and Father would be, too, if I were to tell you all about it. And I will—only not for a little while yet, for it’s pleasant to have a secret, especially one as nice as this._ _

_ _The snow has been falling beautifully. I found a sled to borrow, and took the children out to a “capital” hill nearby. Poor Kitty and Minnie were too ladylike to come, but I had Tina and the boys, and Essie as well—I count her as one of the children, for she had never been sledding before, and had to be coaxed into going down herself. There was one bad moment, when the sled bounced off the track and spilled her out, but she came up smiling sweetly, and saying, “Wouldn’t I fit in with your family now!”_ _

_ _She likes to hear about us, and I generally tell her any story I can think of, that wouldn’t make us too eccentric. I never thought of our lives as very interesting, till I saw how absorbed she was in the post-office box, and your dollies, and Camp Laurence, and all the other hundred little moments which make our life so wonderful. _ _

_ _I talk to her about all of you so often that it’s odd to think that I’ve written dozens of letters mentioning her only once or twice. I think she might well be my first friend from outside the family; even Teddy was quickly incorporated into our pell-mell household. I never saw the use of seeking out chums other than you or Meg or even Amy, and now I do, very much. You can’t think how happy I am to know her._ _

_ _I could write much longer on the subject—but we have the rest of our lives for these kinds of talks, and I only a little piece of paper._ _

_ _Now Essie and I are lying on the rug in front of my stove, making perfect guys of ourselves, were anyone here to disapprove; as it is, we sprawl out with about as much dignity as the cats. She wants to “get up” a spring concert at her school, and perhaps later a newspaper, and a school play—the latter my idea, of course. For now the concert occupies both of us; she wants to bring a proposal to her principal in the next few days. The songs are to be some kind of mix, between popular songs and hymns and the dear old Negro melodies that the children learned from their parents._ _

_ _She is so wonderfully interested in the children. I almost wept over it this morning, of all the silly things!—for I know how much I’ll miss her when my time here is finished. I’ve made many wonderful friends here, but she is the first really true, dear friend I’ve met since Teddy, and though I miss all of you very much, I don’t know what I’ll do when I’m back at home and still wishing for Essie every evening, with her in a place so far away that it tried to call itself another country._ _

_ _My current, silly dream—don’t breathe of word of this except to Marmee, Betty—is that I become a millionairess, and with a wave of my hand can just give her a school, for she really deserves it, and would do heaps of good. We’d be close enough to you and Father and Marmee and the Dove-cote to walk there, for I’m sure she’d like to meet you, and it would do you good, Betty, to be around children, so you could drop from your window gingerbread, and bonbons, and all manner of treats down to them. _ _

_ _Beth, thank you so much for writing and telling me about Amy’s letters. I didn’t mention it before, for it smarted despite my best efforts, but tonight I told Essie about the whole trouble. She was very sympathetic, but suddenly I wasn’t; I still long to see Europe, fruitlessly—that would be the other great fulfillment as a millionairess— though it was losing Europe that brought me on this other adventure. I wonder what the moral is in that?_ _

_ _Your loving sister,  
JO._ _


End file.
